How I Forgave the Snowboarder Who Ended My Ski Season

On Christmas morning of 2024, I was struck from behind by a 215-pound, 6’2” snowboarder traveling at a high rate of speed. I went sailing through midair, spun 180 degrees, and landed on my back as if I’d dropped from a second-story window onto a concrete sidewalk. My pelvis cracked like a peppermint Lifesaver.

Later, a friend asked if I’d gotten the guy’s name and number. Would I sue? I considered it. Briefly. I mean, he was totally at fault. I was clearly the downhill skier. I saw him in my peripheral vision only a millisecond before impact. He’d come out of nowhere like a heat-seeking Tomahawk missile, and I had a target on my back.

Here’s the sticky wicket. The snowboarder in question—the perpetrator—was my husband. This complicated matters considerably. He’d been doing a big toe-side turn and didn’t see me in his blind spot. I’m known to beeline straight down the fall-line in predictable short-swing turns, but he had made some weird calculation that I would ski at a 45-degree angle away from him.

We were the only ones on Hughes at Winter Park that day, the sky so blue it looked purple, and the slope a perfect corduroy of crisp ridges. Then whamo! As I slid downhill, it felt as if my legs were being pulled apart like a Thanksgiving wishbone. Evidently, that’s the sensation you get when your pelvis is broken and you’re spinning helplessly downhill with 160-cm levers attached to your feet.

At the ER at the base, a ski patroller asked what happened while another gingerly removed my ski boots.

“He hit me from behind,” I said, thumbing toward my husband.

“I did not hit you,” he countered. “We collided with each other.”

“Okay, then,” I said. “I collided with the uphill skier.”

Did I mention it was Christmas day?

Back home, my husband took me to the orthopedic for a follow-up. As pelvic fractures go, mine wasn’t too bad. Not displaced. No surgery required. I was on crutches for less than two weeks, but I needed to hang up the boards for three months while my bones healed. At the appointment, the doctor told us how he once crashed into his ex-wife on the ski hill and how important it was that she forgave him afterward.

“You need to forgive him,” the doctor told me.

“I noticed you said ‘ex-wife,’” I replied.

So that was the question. How to forgive someone who sidelines you from your ski season? It was an accident, of course. If it were intentional, this would be a different story. Still, I didn’t think a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers was penance enough. In the interest of justice, I decided to even the score with a simple five-step plan.

1. The Butler: When I was on crutches and doped up on pain pills, my husband was my caretaker. Meals were delivered bedside until I was ready to clomp down the stairs. He was on laundry duty, grocery shopping, kid pickups, and kitchen cleanups.
2. The Me-Moon: Before the accident, I had a January trip planned to Bardonecchia, Italy, where I planned to ski, watch my son ski race, and stay in a friend’s medieval castle. After canceling my flight and hotel, I promptly rebooked a solo trip to Kronplatz, Italy, exactly three months to the day after the accident. My husband would drive me to the airport at 3 a.m. I would eat prosciutto and cheese, drink cappuccinos and Aperol spritzes, and ski 25 glorious miles on the first day.
3. The Sibling Mafia: Back in Colorado, at the season’s end, I started skiing with my husband again—warily. As he popped out of the trees, my brother (accidentally) slide-tackled him. As the two of them lay there in a heap (unharmed), I held up my index finger. “That’s one,”  I told my husband. “I have four more brothers and sisters. Watch your back.”
4. The Hall Pass: Once cleared to ski again, I never hesitated to jump in the car and head for the hills. Powder on a Tuesday? Count me in. Spring bumps with the girls? Hell, yeah.
5. The Instant Absolution: Last fall, my husband tripped on the stairs and broke his big toe but good. Soon after, packed into the stands at a CU Buffs football game, I inadvertently stepped squarely on his broken toe. He was furious—until I reminded him about the whole pelvis thing.

“Are we even now?” he asked.

The truth is, despite my five-step campaign of retribution, I had already forgiven him—back there in Winter Park’s ER on Christmas day. I could see how bad he felt from the look on his face as the doctor brought up the X-ray and pointed out the two small fractures on my left pubic rami. I’d forgiven him in that moment. Accidents happen. But forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. Now, when we ski together, I let the big guy go first.

Read More Odes to Skiing

A Love Letter to Slush Bumps, Skiing’s Most Fleeting Joy
An Ode To The Cold, Icy, Depravity Of Nightskiing
Powder Days Turn Me Into a Intolerable Jerk. I’m Not the Only One, Right?